


Code Z

by Kryptaria



Series: Code Z [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), The Zombie Survival Guide - Max Brooks
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondlock, M/M, Military Jargon, Unrequited Love, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A peaceful evening at 221b is abruptly interrupted by an unexpected emergency: a security breach at a secret government lab. As a first responder, Sherlock Holmes is called to join the entry team to investigate the situation -- and John Watson discovers the terrible truth of what lies beneath a quiet island in the Bristol Channel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been a long time in the works! I started writing it in spring of 2012 before abandoning it halfway through. It sat in my fics folder until recent inspiration hit once more.
> 
> To all those who looked at it back then, I apologize for losing the records of your beta work. If you let me know, I'll happily credit you! The 2014 review team includes, in alphabetical order, Jennybel75, Provocatrixxx, rayvanfox, and stephrc79. Thanks to all of you for your help!
> 
> _Note: This series is Bondlock, with eventual John/Sherlock and Bond/Q. However, this first part is unrequited. Also, please note that no archive warnings apply._

John settled deeper into the armchair, trying not to allow his eyes to close, fighting to keep his attention focused on the dimly-lit figure at the window. The music was heartbreaking, a lonely song of minor notes that proved, beyond all doubt, that Sherlock Holmes had a soul somewhere deep beneath the computer that was his brain. He was infuriating and frustrating and stubborn and rude. He took John for granted in every way possible, treating him as a servant or using him as a target for his barbed wit. He had no sense of propriety or self-preservation or even sanity most days.

And yet...

The silhouette shifted, curly hair made hazy by the soft streetlight. Sherlock bowed his head and poured his heart out through the music his fingertips coaxed from strings and wood and horsehair. The notes were softer now, mere whispers, coming slow and long and soothing, and for a little while, John could pretend that this was an unspoken expression of how Sherlock felt.

Not that the great Sherlock Holmes would admit to having anything so common as _feelings_. But John could imagine that in some parallel universe he did, and that he simply chose the language of music as his way of telling John the truth he kept buried deep inside.

John wanted to curl up and die at the hopelessness of it. He wanted to leave, to go up to his room or out to the pub, to find someone — anyone — to keep him distracted for the night. He could, too; he had no trouble at all picking up dates, or at least he hadn’t, once upon a time, before Sherlock. Now, he was so constantly distracted that he felt like a gawky teenager all over again.

A year or more with Sherlock had reduced him to this: a lovesick puppy seriously contemplating the merits of drinking himself into insensibility to make this Saturday night torture the least bit tolerable.

He sighed with relief when the text alert went off.

He prayed it was Lestrade notifying them of some terrible crime that would engage Sherlock’s mind and let John escape back to the battlefield of London, where he was the other half of _Sherlock Holmes_ , the body to Sherlock’s mind, the two of them working together, thinking together, very much partners and too busy for John to be in love, at least for a little while.

God, was this what he’d been reduced to? Hoping someone was _dead_ just so he could forget his impossible crush for a night?

“Are you going to get that?” he asked, the sound of his voice startlingly loud over the music.

The playing never hitched. There was the slightest movement, though, as Sherlock lifted his chin from the rest and let out a little huff of breath: an unspoken _no_.

Sighing, John got to his feet and put down the whiskey he’d barely touched. Fourteen months, and he was used to frisking Sherlock for anything from his phone to the keys to the flat, and he told himself firmly that just because he was sticking a hand in his trouser pocket was _not_ an excuse for his mind to go there or for his fingers to linger.

Sherlock was still playing, and the little movements transmitted through his body were hypnotic, paralyzing John with the currents of warmth that radiated from his skin and out through his royal blue shirt. This close, John could barely see the glow of streetlights through the thin, fine weave of fabric, sculpting shadow into muscle, the curve of ribs, the dip of waist.

Softness blossomed under the fingertips of his right hand, and he realized he’d touched Sherlock’s back, pressing his shirt against the slope of warm muscle that eased into the peaks and valleys of his spine. He was too thin, with wiry muscles that John had memorized, constructing a map of his body in little glimpses stolen as Sherlock emerged from his bedroom or the shower or that one time he’d stripped off his layered shirts in a rush after the acid splash incident in the kitchen, just as John was coming home from work.

The phone buzzed again, startling John into yanking his hand out, thankfully still holding the hard plastic that had been his goal. That gave him an excuse to drop his other hand from Sherlock’s back, heat still searing a path from his fingertips to his wrist to his shoulder and straight down.

His hands were trembling when he unlocked the phone. Two messages, both from Mycroft, both identical.

Thank God, both were puzzling, giving John the ability to step back from his fantasies and thoughts. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” came the response, the breathy not-word in precise harmony to the violin’s song.

“It’s from Mycroft — two messages, both identical. What does ‘Code Z’ mean?”

Sherlock spun, and suddenly John was scrambling to catch the violin thrust at him as the bow clattered to the floor, and Sherlock jerked away the mobile. The illuminated screen cast an ominous glow on his pale face, highlighting the faint, dark stubble that had just begun to grow in.

“Fuck,” Sherlock whispered, and John’s head snapped up, because Sherlock wasn’t one for profanities under _any_ circumstance.

Sherlock looked _afraid,_ which didn’t happen. Ever.

Silently, trying to master the rush of adrenaline that was flooding his system in irrational reaction, John set the violin on the table, out of harm’s way. He retrieved the bow and set it down as well. There was the faint sound of dialling before Sherlock set the phone to his ear.

“Yes,” Sherlock said a moment later. And then, “We’re on our way.” Followed by, “Yes, _we_. John’s coming.”

John blinked. Was Sherlock on the phone with _Mycroft?_ Taking one of his brother’s cases without even a hint of protest?

“I don’t care,” Sherlock snarled. “Make it happen.” He hung up and shoved the phone into his pocket, pacing away, hands buried in his hair. He took a loud, ragged-sounding breath and spun on his heel, fixing John with a look of absolute despair.

John’s throat went tight. “Sherlock...” he whispered, getting to his feet. “What is it?”

“I need you.” He took another breath and closed his eyes, tilting his head back for a moment. “There’s no time to explain. We have to go, now. Will you come?”

“Yes, of course,” John said, baffled, forcing the words through the tension rising inside him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock breathed. When he looked back at John, his eyes seemed so grey they were nearly silver, never a good sign. “And bring your gun.”

  


~~~

  


It took less than four minutes for John to run upstairs, arrange the concealed carry holster at the small of his back, and change to a looser button-down shirt that would cover the bulge of the SIG’s grip. He dropped out the magazine, drew back the slide to eject the chambered round, and then replaced everything, chambering the round again. He’d learned that there was nothing _safe_ about London when he was at Sherlock’s side, and he wasn’t about to risk one of them getting injured or killed because he had to stop to rack the slide.

He closed his bedroom door, taking the stairs down two at a time. “Sherlock?” he called as he let himself into the living room.

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, wearing tight black clothes: black military uniform trousers with cargo pockets and a web belt, a long-sleeved black turtleneck that looked painted on, and black combat boots.

No force on earth could have stopped John from staring. He thought he’d seen every possible facet of Sherlock Holmes, but never had he imagined... _this_.

Worried grey eyes skittered over John, taking in the fact that he’d changed his shirt. He gave a little nod of understanding and crossed the room, lifting one hand. Still trembling.

John’s breath caught, his chest going heavy and tight with fear.

“Sherlock. What the hell’s going on?” he asked, and while he meant it to come out strong and angry, he fell far short of the mark.

In answer, Sherlock’s hand touched John’s chest, fingers over his heart. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, eyes closing in grief. “We can’t discuss it here. I never wanted you to know. I wanted to protect you. But I need you too much...”

He fell into silence, except for the unsteady sound of his breath, his hand burning through John’s thin shirt. And John fell into his new place in life beside Sherlock, all the rough, torn edges of _self_ fitting right up against Sherlock’s own raw places, filling the gaps they both had. Completing one another.

“We’ll get through this, Sherlock,” he promised quietly, wanting to lift his free hand to cover Sherlock’s, but that was outside the bounds of what they did, whether John liked that fact or not. “I promise, whatever it is, we’ll get through it.”

  


~~~~~

  


Outside, there was a commotion at the street corner, where John saw police with  yellow vests and torches fending off traffic. John’s first thought was a car accident, and he nearly went to see if anyone needed his help — there were no flashing lights to indicate an ambulance on-scene — before he realized they were clearing the street of _everything_.

“This way,” Sherlock said, touching John’s arm to get him moving toward the chaos. It was early enough in the evening that people were gathering and traffic was already snarled up, choking the side streets. Sherlock ignored everything, his expression absolutely neutral. John knew Sherlock was so deep in his own thoughts that he’d walk in front of a bus without noticing, so he stayed protectively close.

Then he heard a familiar noise that made him flinch and catch Sherlock’s arm tightly, ready to pull him back, already looking for cover, which was _absurd_ because that wasn’t —

But it was.

It was a Lynx Mk9 utility helicopter, the fastest helicopter in the British Army, in service virtually everywhere the Army was deployed. Both doors were open, and John could see a gunner stationed behind the M3M .50 calibre machine gun on the far side.

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock —”

“That’s ours,” Sherlock said grimly, and it was his turn to take hold of John’s arm and push forward through the crowd. With his free hand, he took an ID badge from his thigh pocket, shook out the lanyard, and looped it around his neck.

Never one for protocol, Sherlock rushed right past the police, pulling John in his wake. A crewman in fatigues that looked standard except for the all-black colouring jumped down to the pavement. “He’s with me,” Sherlock shouted over the noise of the rotors that were still spinning.

“Yes, sir,” the airman answered, getting out of Sherlock’s way so he could duck and climb aboard. “Sir, just find a seat. I’ll help you strap in —”

“Done this before,” John said, his voice distant in his ears as he climbed through the door. Sherlock was already in one of the troop seats, fussing with the straps. Moving easily through the cramped interior, John went to help, automatically balancing himself as the helicopter lifted off before the door was even secured.

Sherlock still looked terrified, though he was trying to hide it. John had seen that same look too many times before in young men who knew that at the end of the flight, someone would be shooting at them, and the years fell away from Captain John Watson, RAMC. With his old, quick grin back in place, he said, “If we’re overthrowing the government because Mycroft’s irritated you, we _will_ have words about this, Sherlock.”

The mindless fear in Sherlock’s eyes slipped away, replaced first by shock, and then by a desperate sort of black humour as he barked out a laugh. “If we did, I’d at least let you have the army.”

“What do I want with a bloody army? I have my hands full dealing with you.” The words slipped out before John could stop himself, and he quickly looked away. Then the airman was there, holding out two helmets set up with comm gear. John took one and sat down next to Sherlock, who took the other.

Once he was settled and strapped in, he reached for Sherlock’s ID badge, lifting it free of the safety straps. It was nothing more than an ID number across the top, a photo of Sherlock that couldn’t be more than a couple of years old, and an embedded chip at the bottom. In his time with the army, John had seen a hundred different types of ID badges, but this followed no format he’d ever seen.

He wanted to ask about it, but they were on the crew’s comm frequency, and he had a feeling that whatever was going on, the airmen weren’t cleared to know.


	2. Chapter 2

The flight was just under two hours. John surprised himself by actually dozing off for most of it as old habits reasserted themselves, waking only when the helicopter’s pitch shifted to nose-down. He sat up and looked to the side, momentarily confused not to see his squadmates around him.

 _Sherlock,_ he thought as the sleep-fog fell away. He stretched as best he could and felt a twinge in his lower back from where the SIG had dug in.

Sherlock turned and gave him a dark, accusatory glare, baffling John until he became aware of warmth at his hand, and he looked down to see their hands were touching. Abruptly, Sherlock jerked away, clenching his fists as the helicopter banked and turned in preparation for landing.

 _Scared of heights? Of flying?_ John wondered, shifting his leg to touch Sherlock’s in a subtle offer of comfort. The other man didn’t react, but he also didn’t move away. Good enough.

They touched down a moment later, and John hit the catch release on his harness, then pulled off his helmet. The airman was already there to take it. “Need help?” John offered Sherlock, who glared at him again, untangled himself from his safety belts, and shoved the helmet at the airman so he could escape the helicopter as soon as the door opened. John followed, surreptitiously rubbing at his back; he was going to have a bruise next to his spine from the SIG’s grip.

The Lynx had dropped them off on a stretch of asphalt marked for use as a helipad. Two other Lynxes were there already, rotors stationary, though the engines were puffing exhaust up into the sky, and another Lynx was coming in fast.

Looking around, he began to realize that the surroundings weren’t familiar only because he’d spent so much of his life at one military base or another. “Hang on,” he said softly. “This — Sherlock, this is _Baskerville_.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock snapped, and broke into a jog toward the perimeter, where Mycroft stood waiting, looking somewhat dishevelled without a jacket or waistcoat, sleeves actually rolled up to below his elbows. Beyond Mycroft was a golf cart with a driver in black, carrying a combat shotgun, to John’s surprise, instead of an SA80.

“The last of Charlie Team are arriving now,” Mycroft was saying to Sherlock as John caught up with the two brothers. “Hello, John.”

John nodded, raising his eyebrows when Mycroft held out a hand, offering him a lanyard with an ID card. He wasn’t surprised to see it had a number and the picture off his military ID. “Couldn’t have found a better photo?” he muttered, putting it on.

“I thought it more discreet than using one of those taken by my surveillance team,” Mycroft said blandly.

Sherlock bared his teeth in an expression that was too tense to be a sneer. “Can we move this along?” he snapped.

“We’re within our schedule,” Mycroft answered in what was probably supposed to be a calming tone, though it came off worried.

Sherlock took an abrupt step back, his arm pressing against John’s shoulder. “This isn’t a drill.”

Mycroft met his brother’s eyes, and for the first time, John could see the family resemblance. “I wish it were.”

 

~~~

 

The conference room was a sterile, impersonal white and grey, with glossy walls stained here and there from whiteboard markers that hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned. The long wall opposite the entrance was in use as a projection screen showing a series of building maps. They were covered with scribbled notes and markings, and John felt a sinking feeling in his gut as he read the plans for what looked like a single-entry-point, three-team assault.

Over the projections was a countdown clock, currently at 20:03. As John watched, it ticked backwards to 20:02.

There were a dozen other people present, half in office clothes, the other half dressed as Sherlock was, in unmarked black, and John felt very out of place in his jeans and striped shirt.

“You realize I was kidding when I mentioned overthrowing a government, don’t you?” John asked in a very low mutter. He followed Sherlock to the corner of the room where a coffee and tea station had been set up.

“I wish that’s all this were,” Sherlock said, giving John another brief, worried look that was becoming all too familiar, pouring sugar liberally into a styrofoam cup before adding coffee.

Baskerville. John’s fears, planted during that long ago case, finally broke through his numbness.

“It’s a biological release, isn’t it? Some kind of bioweapon?” He tried to sound calm about it, but now all of the rumours he’d heard in the military were coming back.

Sherlock gave him a startled look.

John laughed humourlessly, stirring cream into his own coffee. “I’ve been following you for more than a year, Sherlock. I don’t qualify as stupid all the time now.”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock looked guilty, even hurt. “I never — John, you’re not —”

“Sherlock. I’m teasing,” he interrupted, holding up his left hand.

There was no tremor at all, and John suddenly remembered Mycroft’s earliest words to him: _You’re under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it._

Sherlock nodded and turned abruptly, going to sit down at one corner of the conference table. John followed and sat beside him, glancing aside as Mycroft took the seat on John’s left. “We’re having a kit assembled for you, John. You’ll have time to change after the briefing.”

“It would help if you could tell me _something_ before we get started. This is a bit over the top, even for you two,” John snapped, trying to keep his voice down.

Mycroft looked past John to Sherlock, who ignored him, focusing on drinking his coffee with the grim determination of a man who was going to his death. Sighing, Mycroft turned his attention back to John. “This meeting is to coordinate Charlie Team — the scientists and analysts who will be entering a lab that does not exist, in order to determine the cause behind an automatic outbreak alarm triggered” — he glanced at the countdown clock, which was now at 19:57 — “three hours and three minutes ago. Alfa and Bravo Teams have already gone in to secure the area, so the threat of hostile contact should be minimal, but one mustn’t take chances.”

“So it _is_ a bioweapon.”

“Hardly a weapon. It is an unknown infectious agent that presents itself in nature. We are the Phase One response team, covering outbreaks and crises in the UK, Iceland, and outlying islands. The release happened at our Seaview facility in the mouth of the Bristol Channel.”

John took a breath and licked his lips, nodding slowly. “Right. And our roles?”

“Three years ago, Sherlock was chosen as our evidentiary investigator. You, doctor, will be Sherlock’s assistant and the secondary team medic. The team leader is Major Kai Peregrine, there in the corner, and with him is the security lead, Captain Anwyn Pritchard. They are in charge until you’re actually _in_ the lab,” he added sternly to Sherlock, who studiously ignored Mycroft.

With a resigned sigh, he continued, indicating a black man in civilian clothes and glasses, carrying a backpack over one shoulder. “Dr Ron Forsythe, primary medic and forensic investigator, specialist in biological decomposition, works with INTERPOL. The sullen young man in the corner — not Sherlock; the other corner — goes by Byron. A genius with computers, very nearly as sociable with his lessers as Sherlock. I expect you’ll get on famously with him, John,” Mycroft said with a shark’s smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The computer genius in question was almost anonymously invisible, slouched low in his chair, long blond hair combed to fall over half his face. He was drumming his fingers on the table, and John could just see the wires of a headset snaking up over his bright red T-shirt.

“That’s it?” John asked, a little surprised. “For an outbreak, we need analysts, collection teams, quarantine —”

“All already accounted for, in one way or another. Interior quarantine was handled by Bravo Team, with Alfa providing perimeter security. You do understand, the number of people in this country who even know the Seaview facility exists is less than one hundred.” Glancing past John to Sherlock, he pointedly added, “And now one more, of course.”

“I would sooner trust John than all the rest of your team put together,” Sherlock snapped, glaring fiercely at Mycroft. “It’s because of him that I’m going at all, rather than advising you initiate countermeasures and be done with it.”

“Countermeasures would cause far too much panic. This isn’t fifty years ago, Sherlock.”

“Wait,” John interrupted. “You’re talking _nuclear_ countermeasures, aren’t you?”

Mycroft went silent. Sherlock smirked proudly, as though John’s deduction were entirely his fault.

“God,” John breathed, taking a gulp of his coffee and scorching his mouth. “All right. What’s in there? Smallpox? Haemorrhagic fever?”

“Worse,” Mycroft said grimly. “Far worse.”

 

~~~

 

Major Kai Peregrine was a tall, solidly built man in his late thirties, wearing the same all-black battle dress that had become familiar to John, with a sidearm at his right thigh. His uniform bore the crown insignia of his rank, but nothing else — not even a name patch. He walked around to stand on the side of the table opposite the chairs, between the two projected maps. Though he said nothing, the room quickly came to order, with the last stragglers taking their seats. Even Byron sat up a bit, taking off his headphones.

“At 1948:08 local time, the Seaview Research Facility’s outbreak alarm was triggered in Lab Three,” Peregrine said without preamble, gesturing to the map to his left, indicating a room that was outlined in red. “Subsequent alarms were triggered in these three access corridors as well as Labs One and Two and the Cold Vault. The facility went into immediate lockdown, with the last door secured at 1948:41.”

“A gap of thirty-three seconds,” Sherlock interrupted. “There’s a recorded log of all the security access points. I need it.”

“We’ll have to get that locally,” Peregrine answered, unruffled by Sherlock’s brusque demand. “We lost our uplink to the island when the EM countermeasures were activated.”

“’Bout an hour after the shit hit the fan,” Byron added helpfully.

Sherlock stared distantly into his coffee in his best interrupt-my-thinking-and-I-will-kill-you manner.

Peregrine continued, “Alfa Team was dispatched at 2010, and arrived onsite at 2028. We have five boats warning off boaters, and all scheduled ships have been routed to ports north or south. Commodore, could you please review RAF assets present?”

To John’s surprise, an older woman in a Manchester United T-shirt and tight blue jeans rose, making John wonder just how many other incognito officers were present. “We have a flight of Tornado GR4A on offense, equipped with nightvision-compatible FLIR-systems. Ah, that’s forward-looking infrared radar,” she clarified, glancing around the table. “They’re armed with ALARM — anti-radiation missiles. They’ll be getting their direction from a flight of E-3D Sentry aircraft at thirty-thousand feet.”

Dr Forsythe raised one hand to interrupt. “What’s the cover story? Terrorists?”

The Commodore nodded. “Making entry via the small tourist marinas in preparation for a coordinated attack on several major population centres, I believe.”

“The details, while critical, are not relevant to this briefing,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Major?”

“Ma’am,” Peregrine said, nodding to the Commodore as she sat back down. “Bravo Team entered the TO at 2049, at which point we lost contact with them.”

“TO?” Byron asked.

“Theatre of operations,” Peregrine clarified, a hint of irritation in his tone. “We’ll be going in under our worst-case scenario, assuming Bravo Team has been eliminated.”

Startled, John glanced at Mycroft in disbelief. He couldn’t be thinking of sending Sherlock into... into what? Into combat? A hot zone? But obviously he was intending just that. John looked back at Peregrine and asked, “Eliminated how, sir?”

Mycroft smoothly interjected, “This is Captain John Watson, RAMC, retired. Of late, he has been working with NSY as a forensic investigator. He’s seconded to Sherlock and will be the team’s backup medic.”

Forsythe gave John an appraising look, followed by a nod with a grim little smile.

Peregrine scrutinized John for another second or two before saying, “We’re assuming that the virus escaped containment, and that the laboratory has been compromised by carriers. If we fail to secure the site before zero-hour, final countermeasures will be imposed.”

Mycroft nodded solemnly. “Sherlock, would you please brief the team on the details of the virus?”

 _Sherlock knows?_ John thought, startled more by that than by the news that they were dealing with a virus. Bacteria were far easier to combat, even with antibiotic-resistant strains developing all the time.

Sherlock got to his feet, and circled the table, his gaze flicking over the maps rather than looking toward his audience. “The virus in question is called _Solanum_. It is theorized to be transmitted by fluid-to-blood contact, generally saliva of the infected, and uses the victim’s circulatory system as a means to enter the brain. There, it replicates in the frontal lobe, destroying the original cellular configuration, ceasing all known bodily functions.”

“What’s the timeframe from infection to death?” John asked, earning himself a glare for the interruption.

“‘Death’ is not accurate in this case,” Sherlock continued. “The body is rendered independent of its need for oxygen, but it remains _animate_ physiologically. _You_ ” — he pointedly looked at everyone _except_ John, and he smirked a bit as he included Mycroft in that general ‘you’ — “would call the infected ‘zombies’.”

“ _Zombies?_ Is this a drill?” Peregrine demanded disbelievingly.

“Did I scramble more than a dozen aircraft for a _hoax?_ ” the Commodore snapped.

As though triggered by the anger of the two officers, everyone else burst out with their own exclamations. Even Byron roused himself enough to say, “Zombies. Wicked.”

Only John and the Holmes brothers remained silent, though not for long.

“Please,” Mycroft interrupted, rising to his feet. “I assure you, this is neither a hoax nor a drill. I recognize the difficulty this presents, but may I remind you all that at one point, people trusted ‘magical remedies’ over penicillin?”

Up front, Sherlock had that grim, all-knowing smirk that so irritated Lestrade’s team. John had always loved the moment when Sherlock got that smirk, because it meant he was about to be aggressively brilliant at everyone. Now, he prayed Sherlock was wrong or joking or... or _something_.

Once everyone had settled back down, Sherlock retrieved a dry erase marker and went to a clean side wall, where he started writing.

“If infection goes unnoticed, the first symptoms begin appearing at hour five,” Sherlock said. “Let’s assume infection happened between two and three in the afternoon — just after lunch, when the carbohydrates are fully metabolized, causing high risk due to fatigue and drowsiness.”

> T+1 1400-1500: Infection  
>  T+5 1900-2000: Fever, dementia, vomiting  
>  T+8 2200-2300: Numbness, loss of coordination  
>  T+11 0100-0200: Paralysis  
>  T+16  0600-0700: Coma  
>  T+20 1000-1100: Apparent death  
>  T+23 1300-1400: Reanimation

“If Bravo Team was compromised, they’d be at T+1 already,” Peregrine said solemnly, apparently having decided to take Sherlock as seriously as one could, given that they were discussing _zombies._ “Do, ah... I take it the movies are accurate regarding methods of transmission?”

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment, and then looked, as he always did, to John.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock, ” John said, entirely unable to believe this. “Zombies bite. Shuffle around eating brains and all.”

Sherlock looked pleased at John’s synopsis. “Yes, obviously. I _said_ fluid-to-bloodstream, most often transmitted through saliva,” he added scathingly to Peregrine. “By T+20, their blood is up to ninety percent coagulated, though infection can occur through a splash into an open wound, such as from an explosion. Even up to five days after apparent death, the body fluids of an infected are toxic enough to transmit the Solanum to a new host, though ingesting infected flesh results only in death and not reanimation.”

“If this is —” Dr Forsythe cut off, shaking his head, still disbelieving. “Why haven’t we heard of this? If nothing else, this should have been observed in rats and other carrion eaters.”

“The mortal toxicity applies to all infected creatures,” Sherlock said. “Only _Homo sapiens_ appears to be subject to the reanimation, however. Tests on chimpanzees, gorillas, and orangutans have all been negative for reanimation.”

“Any other vectors, beside fluid-to-blood?” Peregrine asked. He’d gone a little pale, but his voice was still steady. “Mosquitoes, maybe?”

“So far, no animal will eat infected flesh — even microbes that serve a role in the decomposition process avoid it.” When Sherlock looked his way, Mycroft nodded as though giving permission for his brother to continue. “We have two scent-hounds onsite who will be accompanying the team as detectors. The blood test for infection is considered too hazardous for field conditions such as this.”

“What about treatment?” John asked softly.

Sherlock looked in his direction. “There is none. If the bite is at an extremity, removing the entire limb _may_ prevent infection, but this is successful less than ten percent of the time. Failing that, the only ‘fix’ is to destroy the infected brain. Fire is generally the preferred method. Submersion in acid is also effective, though potentially more dangerous. Dispersion of forty-five to fifty-five percent of brain matter is reported to be sufficient as well.”

“The shotguns,” John guessed, closing his eyes. “God.”

“I think God’s left us on our own in this one,” Dr Forsythe said softly.

“Given that the reanimated infected are quite literally decomposing as they move about, and that they can move on average one step every one-point-five seconds, I believe that the goal of staying out of arm’s reach will hardly be difficult,” Sherlock interrupted, looking irritated at the religious intrusion on his otherwise ‘scientific’ presentation.

“You’ve _really_ never seen a horror movie, have you?” John asked unthinkingly. He winced when Sherlock glared at him.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pressed on, saying, “Only one in four reanimated has been shown capable of the simplest coordination, such as climbing a ladder, and even then only for a few steps before they fall. Failing the ability to destroy the brain, destroying even one leg will render the reanimated infected unable to pursue its target.”

“Meaning us,” Peregrine said grimly.

Sherlock nodded. “Precisely.”


	3. Chapter 3

“You’ve known for _three years,_ ” John said, stamping his foot into a new black boot. He didn’t dare look up at Sherlock for fear that he might deck the man if he had that smirk of his. Hell, John might deck him even if he wasn’t smirking.

“It was classified.” Sherlock shrugged, leaning against the wall of lockers. The doors creaked and popped under his weight. “This outbreak never should have happened at all. One of the first things I did for Mycroft was to review the security procedures.”

“But you _knew!_ ” John insisted irrationally, pulling on his other boot. He leaned down to start lacing them with quick jerks of his fists. “Zombies, Sherlock. _Zombies._ They’re real and you knew and you _never said a fucking —_ ”

“I _couldn’t,_ ” he snapped so angrily that John looked up in surprise. Sherlock was looking away, arms folded over his chest, jaw set in a way that looked less stubborn and more... wounded.

John wasn’t Sherlock, but he hadn’t stood by the man for this long without learning something. And while Sherlock studied humanity as a whole, John had studied _him_. Hesitantly, he ventured, “But you wanted to.”

There it was, a little flick of Sherlock’s eyes, gaze landing on John for only the briefest instant before he looked away again. “Mycroft has our flat bugged. I’m certain he does. Nosy bastard that he is.”

John would be furious about that some other time. “All right,” he said, going back to lacing his new boots. “You’re _certain_ this is real?”

“ _Why_ do people require such pointless repetition?” Sherlock demanded in exasperation. “Yes, this is real.”

“If you’d ever seen any movie by George Romero, you’d understand why I’m asking,” John said steadily. “Have you — Have you seen these... What’d you call them? Reanimated infected?”

“Only on video. I haven’t been able to work with any test samples, either. Mycroft refused to grant me clearance to the lab.”

John looked up at him, wondering why he was surprised that Sherlock would be _excited_ at the thought of experimenting on zombies. He stood up, stamping his feet as though to ground himself; everything still felt unreal.

“Well, at least I know I’ll never have nightmares of Afghanistan again,” he said blandly, tucking his shirt into his combat trousers. He had no body armor or even a standard uniform button-down shirt, but he did have a web harness to carry gear. A glance showed him that Sherlock hadn’t bothered with his, and he said, “Put your harness on.”

“Too uncomfortable.”

“You’ll need it. You can’t carry your weapons in your hands.”

“You’re armed. You’ll be with me.”

“If you don’t put on your harness, I swear to God, I’ll shoot out both your kneecaps, and you can watch the whole thing on video all over again,” he threatened.

Sherlock stared at him.

John narrowed his eyes. “We’re going into a lab that could well be infested with zombies, Sherlock, and if you think I’m even going to let you out of this room without _both_ of us armed, you’re more insane than even Sergeant Donovan thinks.” He glared, and there was nothing of Doctor John Watson left in his voice. Captain Watson had taken control, and God, it was so easy — so _good_ — to slip back into command-mode. “So go on. _Test my resolve_.”

With a visible flinch, Sherlock sat down on the bench and opened the untouched kit bag he’d been issued. He dug out the harness and started trying to untangle it, turning it over in his hands.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” John muttered, snatching the harness away. The specific configuration was unfamiliar, but there were only so many ways to design a tactical harness. This one went over the shoulders, attached to the belt, and included anchor points for a radio and a water pack to be worn on the back. He got the harness untangled and settled over Sherlock’s shoulders, then made him stand to get it properly attached to his belt.

“Now go walk around a bit to see if any of the straps bite or pinch. And don’t tell me ‘all of them’. You told me to bring my gun, so I can shoot you right here and now,” John threatened, turning to sort out his own gear.

Once he was in the harness, he hooked a torch that could double as a club onto one of the straps. He had to fuss with everything so he could carry his SIG holstered at the small of his back. It probably would have been easier to wear it in a thigh holster, but he felt more comfortable keeping it to himself. He didn’t know anyone on this mixed team of civilians and soldiers. The lab’s security had been breached; it could have been an inside job.

At least his own kit was satisfyingly complete and included medical gear, which he started stowing in various pockets and pouches, remembering his preferred old setup: nitrile gloves in a sleeve pocket, pressure bandages at the right thigh, and so on.

“You’re humming.”

John looked up at the surly interruption. “Sorry?”

“You’re _humming,_ ” Sherlock accused.

“Guess I am,” he said, suppressing the mad laugh that was building up inside him.

“I’m not allowed to look forward to this, but you are?”

“I’m just a dumb infantry grunt,” John pointed out. “You’re supposed to be the intelligent one, and only a bloody stupid fool would be _happy_ at the thought of zombies.”

Sherlock stared at him. Slowly, a smile cracked through his façade.

John grinned.

Sherlock let out a low laugh, and John lost his composure completely, and naturally that was how Mycroft found them, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder on the bench, laughing like children.

“Ah, battlefield humour. A bit early to start, don’t you think?” Mycroft asked dryly.

“Piss off,” Sherlock said.

John choked on another laugh.

“I suppose I have no choice but to trust you with these,” Mycroft said, sighing deeply as he offered John a plastic baggie. Inside were four single-use syringes in individual paper sleeves, along with about twenty or thirty single-pill packets.

“Morphine?” he asked, reading the markings on the syringes. He set the baggie down and dug through his kit to find an appropriate pouch for them.

“Yes. Your full medical kit will also include such things as adrenaline, but _most_ of the team carries their own morphine,” he said, glancing at Sherlock.

John felt Sherlock go tense at Mycroft’s obvious show of distrust. Pointedly, John put two of the syringes into the pouch he found, and then offered the other two to Sherlock, saying casually, “Put them in a hard pouch. You don’t need them getting crushed.”

Sherlock stared at him, then nodded as the surprise in his eyes softened to something like gratitude. He took the syringes without a word and turned to dig through his own kit bag.

Satisfied, John turned back to Mycroft, silently daring him to protest.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed, but he said nothing.

After a long, tense moment, John picked up the baggie. The pills were wrapped in unmarked white plasticized paper, one pill in each packet. They could have been anything from aspirin to cyanide. “And these?”

“Amphetamines. You’ll want to take them when you set out. Major Peregrine has the doses for the rest of the team. Those are for you and Sherlock.”

That was Mycroft’s not-quite-tactful way of saying that everyone’s amphetamine use was supervised, which was just fine with John. “Right. Do you have medical records for the team? Previous conditions, allergies...”

“All being set up for you. You were a late addition, after all,” Mycroft added, shooting a look at his brother.

Sherlock stared right back at Mycroft. “He’s worth the rest of your precious team combined,” he said quietly.

Mycroft stared at him for a long, quiet moment before saying, “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  


~~~

  


The combat shotgun was understandable, especially with the heavy buckshot rounds provided. “Save it for ten metres or less,” John told Sherlock, who was staring fixedly at John’s hands as he checked the weapon’s mechanisms for smooth operation. The buttstock could be fully extended to brace against the shoulder or collapsed into something like a pistol grip, which was where John left it. Rather than slinging it, he set it beside him on the table.

The room was filled with its own special music to John’s ears: the sounds of men and women checking their gear, racking slides, loading ammo, and getting ready to live another day. That there were civilians here — _Sherlock_ — was more of a problem for him, but he’d already resolved not to let Sherlock out of arm’s reach until they were back at Baker Street.

Possibly not even then, if the zombie apocalypse was really here to stay. And God, he couldn’t even believe he was _thinking_ that and not drunk off his arse.

Baskerville aides were rushing about, handing out equipment, checking off lists, and generally faltering when they came up one short, thanks to Sherlock’s late addition to the team in the form of Captain Watson, as the others had begun to address him. He didn’t bother mentioning the invalided-out part, just in case anyone decided he should stay back at HQ and take notes or something instead.

One of the aides squeezed between John and Sherlock to set down two SA80 L85A2 5.56mm NATO rifles, and John couldn’t help but grin as he picked up his. “Hello, beautiful,” John said softly, cradling the rifle. The weight was all wrong without a loaded magazine, but it still felt like coming home.

“Would you go back?”

John looked over at Sherlock, caught off-guard by the question. “Home? With you going —”

Sherlock shook his head, a hint of uncertainty showing in his eyes. “Would you re-enlist? Your shoulder’s strong...”

Glancing down at the rifle in his hands, it was like a part of him had never left. The only thing missing was the dark tan that had bronzed his hands and face and turned his hair from light brown to gold. There was a little ache in his shoulder in bad weather, and sometimes his fine motor skills were a bit off in his left hand. But since realizing he was going to spend his days chasing Sherlock and all manner of international criminals and children who’d lost their glow-in-the-dark bunnies, he’d resumed a regimen of calisthenics and jogging. If he wasn’t quite in the shape he’d been before, in Afghanistan, he was damned close.

He was thinking about it in an idle late-night fantasy sort of way when the aide came back, this time with an armload of thirty-round magazines. “Eight _each?_ ” John said after the pile settled enough for him to do a quick count. “Christ, that’s excessive.”

“More ammo’s the best survival gear we have, Captain,” Peregrine said, walking down the length of the table. He put down a leather case, about the size of a paperback book, but barely an inch thick, and slid it across the table to John. “Not like we need to carry in supplies, except some water and energy bars. And that.”

The slim case twisted as it moved, and John caught a glimpse of a mini-USB port on the bottom, so he was prepared when Sherlock’s hand snaked out to grab it. A sharp slap caught the ever-observant detective entirely off-guard, and John was able to snatch at what proved to be a small, thin tablet computer.

“John —”

“Not yours, Sherlock,” John said, tapping the screen. He’d never used this model — he had a feeling, in fact, that it wasn’t commercially available — but it was easy enough to navigate through folder structures. He itched to review the Seaview Research Outbreak Notes folder, but his first duty was to his squad (or team or whatever they were) so he opened Personnel instead and started familiarizing himself with the others.

“But John —”

“Stow your kit.”

Peregrine’s chuckle intruded on John’s research. “You two a couple, then?”

John’s usual denial was cut short by Sherlock sidling up next to him, asking, “If I say yes, can I have the tablet?”

Peregrine burst out laughing. John groaned and closed his eyes as Sherlock slid the tablet from his fingers. “That’s it. Bring on the zombies,” John said, resigned to forever being labelled gay and taken by a man who was as uninterested in him as it was possible to be and still remain friends.

“You can review the material while we’re en route. Not like there’s much to do in terms of treatment,” Peregrine said, the humour leaching out of his voice. He tipped his head, beckoning John away from the others. John followed, glad that Sherlock was distracted by the tablet.

“There really isn’t any, is there, sir?” John asked very softly.

“Your friend there wasn’t kidding. The survival rate really isn’t even ten percent with immediate amputation, and that’s if you’re lucky enough to get bit on the finger and get your arm lopped off at the shoulder.”

John’s eyes narrowed very slightly as he considered that.

He didn’t ask, but he also didn’t have to. Peregrine answered anyway, saying, “You don’t want to know.”

John let out a breath and looked back, resolving on the spot to put himself between Sherlock and anything that even looked like a corpse, walking or not, and to hell with what Sherlock thought. Worst case, he’d hit Sherlock with both morphine syringes and drag him out, giggling.

“The rest is easy — first aid, field stuff, strictly pressure bandage and get out. Seems these buggers can smell blood or human meat or something, too.” Peregrine grimaced, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Holmes — the older one, that is — he said he issued you uppers?”

“Yes, sir. Said I’d dose myself and Holmes, and you’d get the rest?”

“Good enough. Be generous. We have to survive...” He twisted, looking at the countdown clock, and grimaced again. “Nineteen hours.”

 _Nineteen hours,_ John thought. Enough time to sleep, do some chores around the flat, and have some tea and biscuits before going out to the pub. Enough time to chase a gang of international smugglers through the streets and be home in time for breakfast. Enough time to autopsy a murder victim and get a head start on a killer fleeing the country.

“Right, sir,” was all he said, thinking of other nineteen-hour blocks of time, where the passage of hours and minutes and seconds was marked by glaring white sun and sharp-edged shadow, by muzzle flashes in the night, by silence shattered to pieces by explosions and screams.

“Watson... You weren’t supposed to be on the team. I’m not saying you’re not a good man — from what I’ve seen of your record, you are. But I need to know you’re on the _team,_ and not just here for Holmes.”

“You want Holmes here, sir?”

Peregrine’s frown turned puzzled. “From what I read, he’s the only one who knows anything about these things.”

“Then you’ve got both of us, sir. I don’t leave his side, and he doesn’t leave my sight, so don’t try to order me away from him. Any other orders, I’ll follow, without complaint.”

“Is that how it’s going to be?” Peregrine asked in frosty tones.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get your ass with him, and stay there,” he said, walking stiffly away, right toward Mycroft.

John let out a breath and returned to Sherlock’s side, wondering if he should say anything. He was still holding his rifle, cradling it across his chest, so he automatically picked up one of the magazines and locked it in place. His fingers ran over the composite surface, still slick with traces of machine oil and shiny-new, not at all like _his_ SA80 had been, but that was all right.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said very quietly.

John glanced at him for a moment, wondering what he was thinking, but he let it go. “Just remember you said that when I stop you from playing with the zombies.”

  


~~~

  


The kit they were issued was rounded out with PRR communications systems — personal role radios, the aide told Sherlock when questioned about the acronym — as well as backpacks of water and protein bars and curious tools that looked like spike-ended crowbars crossed with hammers; the labels called them Annihilator Utility Wrecking Bars.

“Remember, people. Spike through the skull, claw through the eye, hammer in the temple. But the goal is to _not_ get into melee with any RIs,” Captain Pritchard announced as the wrecking bars were handed out. She had hers strapped to her calf with some spare Velcro and webbing, spike-end down.

“Last check, and then we move out. Pair up!” Major Peregrine added a minute later, after everyone had found somewhere to stow the last of their gear.

John turned to Sherlock and started tugging on straps, pulling him off-balance for a moment before he braced himself. “Please tell me you’ve actually fired a shotgun before,” he said very quietly, not wanting the rest of the team to hear his concern.

“I grew up hunting. The family estate, you know.”

“The _what?_ ” escaped before John could catch himself. He stared up at Sherlock, who had his smirk back. Lovely. One of them had regained his sense of humour.

“Did you think I was looking for a flatmate so I could spend all my money on clothes and materials for my experiments?”

The pieces fell into place. Hell, the pieces should have fallen into place months ago, a year ago. In fact, John remembered wondering how Sherlock could afford to buy a dozen new shirts a season at D&G or have his suits fitted on Savile Row when he needed help making half the rent and utilities.

“Then — _why?_ ” he demanded, wondering if the last fourteen months had been some sort of lark for him or misguided pity for a broken-down vet.

Sherlock stared at him as if the answers were obvious, but he jumped right into the list without waiting for John to catch up: “I _need_ you. You were interesting from that first day — not nearly as stupid as the rest of them. I thought I could get you to shoot Mycroft for me. I would have been bored by myself again. You like me. You killed someone for me. You don’t lie to me when you can’t sleep because you have a nightmare. You ask me to play the violin for you —”

“Sherlock,” John cut in a little frantically, his mind catching up and reminding him to breathe.

After a moment in which even the sounds of the team gearing up seemed to fade away, Sherlock asked quietly, “Too much?”

With a deep, resigned sigh, John started tugging at buckles and straps on his own kit, not trusting Sherlock to do it right, but he slapped at John’s hands and started trying anyway. John relented, watching a bit anxiously, half-expecting Sherlock to accidentally hit the trigger on one of the three weapons John now carried, but apparently the overwhelming empathy had been an anomaly. This was Sherlock Holmes, and if he hadn’t known before how to run a pre-combat field kit check, now he certainly did, just from watching John.

When John turned around to let Sherlock check the packs at the small of his back (spare ammo on the sides, medpack in the centre), he said, “Not too much. Just not expected. And we _will_ be talking about this, if we don’t get killed.”

“Of course, of course,” Sherlock said dismissively, and just from his voice, John could picture the manic gleam in his eyes. He smacked John’s shoulder to turn him back around, and there it was, the mad grin, just as John expected and dreaded. “Think of it — the chance to possibly see actual RIs in the field!”

“Zombies.”

“Reanimated infected —”

“They’re _zombies,_ Sherlock. I don’t care what you want to call them. They’re zombies.”


	4. Chapter 4

Outside, the wind had kicked up, and the threat of rain turned the nighttime skies to a solid, flat black. John looked up at the clouds, wondering what effect this sort of weather would have on Solanum-reanimated flesh, and his mind automatically went back to the corpses he’d seen in the desert. Contrary to what civilians seemed to think, a body in the desert went the same way as one in England, though at a different rate. It wasn’t a neat progression from death to desiccation.

He bent to retrieve the tablet that he’d placed into his left thigh pocket — or that he’d _intended_ to stow there. A quick glance confirmed that he’d forgotten to retrieve it from Sherlock, and he rolled his eyes, deciding it would be easier to reclaim it in the confined space of their transport to Seaview.

“Cheer up, Captain.” It was Pritchard, who had been hanging back to inspect the mixed squad of soldiers and civilians. She was grinning at him in a welcoming sort of way, and fell in at his side. Her headset was draped around her neck, mic folded back. “Hear you had a bit of a row with the Major,” she said more softly, her Welsh accent lyrical.

John pushed his own headset off and smiled, glancing her over quickly. She was John’s height, with black hair cropped to less than an inch in an unflattering but practical style. She didn’t have a tan, but something about the way she carried herself reassured John; she’d seen combat and had survived, just as he had. As leader of a combat-ready security detail for an op like this, she was doubtless competent, but it was _his_ life on the line here — his and Sherlock’s, actually.

“Just clarifying my role here, Captain,” John said very carefully, jerking his head back to indicate Sherlock. True to his expectations, Sherlock had the tablet out again and was sorting through the contents, following John without looking at where they were going.

“Call me Pritchard — Pritch, the lads call me.” She flashed him a grin, adding, “Or Bitch, if things go arse-end-up.”

“Watson,” he answered with a laugh, deciding immediately _not_ to tell her some of the names he’d earned back in the desert. “He’s Holmes, as you know, but it hardly matters what you call him. Half the time, he’ll ignore you. Don’t take offence.”

“Bloody civilians,” she said agreeably with a little shrug. “The other Holmes — the poncy git back there — gave me an updated roster, and you’re number three in the chain of command.”

John couldn’t hide his momentary surprise, though after a moment’s consideration, he realised it made sense. A little chill passed over him. He nodded, his gaze automatically seeking out Major Peregrine, who was up at the front of the pack, walking with Dr Forsythe at his side.

“Didn’t tell you, hm?” She chuckled and shook her head, turning to walk backwards a couple of steps before pointing. “See that one? Short bald fellow?”

John turned, looking back at the knot of soldiers who trailed behind Sherlock. The man in question was walking at the very back of the pack, laughing and joking with the others, but looking them over in a sharp, assessing sort of way. A quick check of the dull rank patch on his black combat dress confirmed John’s suspicions.

“Your lieutenant?”

“Nanda Rangarajan,” she said with a nod, turning forward again. “If I go down, I suggest you listen to him. Good head on his shoulders, and he worked onsite security at Seaview for a year before transferring to Baskerville when he got married. Knows the place inside and out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but forgive me if I don’t plan on losing _anyone_ on my watch.”

Pritchard grinned at him again. “Say it like that, and I can almost believe we’ll all walk out of this alive.”

There were two choppers waiting for them, and John automatically followed Pritchard to the second to keep himself — and, more importantly, Sherlock — away from the man in charge of the mission. John had no idea if Peregrine could override Mycroft and ground Sherlock, and he really didn’t want to find out.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. Well, he probably did, but just didn’t care. He followed John into the second Lynx and sat down, looking distinctly unhappy at being stuck in a seat close to the door. John took the closer seat and turned to help Sherlock strap in, thinking that the flight would probably be fifteen or twenty minutes, and Sherlock would need a distraction.

“You can keep the tablet — for now,” John corrected sternly. “Just tell me if there’s anything that I’d find important.”

“No new data on transmission or finding an antiviral,” Sherlock said scathingly, not fighting John’s attempts to get the belts around him, but doing nothing to help, other than glaring when John nudged the tablet. “The team’s in disgustingly perfect health. Forsythe’s vision is the closest thing to a ‘medical issue’, so you’ll be bored.”

“Yes, because going into a secret government lab that could potentially be filled with zombies is _dull,_ ” John said, giving the straps one last tug, perhaps a bit harder than he should have. “Have you even heard of _Resident Evil?_ ”

Sherlock frowned.

“God.” John sighed and dug two amphetamine pills out of his pocket. He ripped one packet open and offered Sherlock the tablet. “Here, take this.”

Absently, Sherlock did, dry-swallowing the pill without ever looking away from the tablet in his hands. “Thank you for the morphine syringes.” He actually looked over at John for a moment. “If you want them back, I won’t need them, and you can’t be... comfortable with me having them. But all the same, thank you for doing that in front of Mycroft.”

John was tempted, but he shook his head. “Your brother’s worried about you. So am I, but for different reasons. I don’t think you’re about to go shooting up in a corner when there are zombies to study.”

Sherlock smirked. “RIs.”

  


~~~

  


The moment the Lynx spun and settled at the helipad by the Seaview dock, an old, familiar calm washed over John’s mind, entirely at odds with the surge of adrenaline that hit his system and accelerated his pulse and breathing. He hit the release on his safety belts, ducked his head, and readied his weapon, watching as his fireteam (as he’d started calling them in his head) disembarked.

Their K-9 handler was Raines, an imposing mountain of a man who’d spent the whole flight fussing over what was possibly the ugliest dog John had ever seen. The dog was called Toby, a floppy-eared mongrel whose shaved fuzz of brown and white fur peeked out from under tightly velcroed body armour. The two of them went first, followed by Lt. Rangarajan and the rest of the security detail. Pritchard went next, with John on her heels, which meant Sherlock was last to disembark. He was probably unhappy about being stuck on the chopper for so long, but John had intentionally left him to fumble with his seatbelt so he couldn’t try to rush ahead.

In the sweeping side-lights of the Lynx, Seaview had an ominous look that John knew was mostly illusion. In daylight, it was probably pleasant enough, looking somewhat like an office building with small windows. There were signs warning against trespassing, but no barbed wire fences, no security towers, nothing to indicate that Seaview Research Facility was more than another obscure government building.

John’s legs trembled, not with the old psychosomatic limp, now long gone, but with the effort of stopping himself from running for the cover of the doorway. This was a different enemy, he realized, one that moved at a slow walk, one with no ranged ability to take a life. There were no snipers watching him through a scope and no landmines underfoot.

Motion at his side made him turn in time to catch Sherlock looking at him as though he’d just killed someone in a new, fascinating way.

“What?” he asked without keying his radio.

Sherlock smirked and offered him the tablet. “You’re grinning.”

So he was. God, he’d _missed_ this. Even getting caught up in Sherlock’s insanity wasn’t like this. “Pain in the arse,” he muttered as he snatched the tablet back, conscious that he was still grinning and couldn’t stop. Sherlock was still smirking, the bastard, when John turned away to stow the tablet in his left thigh pocket.

“You’re ambidextrous when shooting,” Sherlock said when John straightened back up.

“SA80 isn’t exactly designed for firing left-handed,” John said, wincing as he remembered his one disastrous attempt. He still had a little scar by the corner of his mouth, almost invisible, where a spent cartridge had scorched his skin.

The answer didn’t seem to satisfy Sherlock, who frowned and said, “Mycroft should have known. He should have —”

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Believe me, it’s fine,” John assured him, giving him a nudge to get moving again.

When they were all gathered by the doors, Peregrine said quietly over the radio, “We go in, just as planned. K-9s first. Branson, secure the doors behind us. Side doors — Rangarajan left, Thatcher right. Zang, take point with Pritchard. Civilians in the middle, with me and Captain Watson. Questions?”

“What if the zombies are right behind that door?” Byron asked, his voice too loud for the radio, making several people jerk their heads in surprise.

“Soldiers shoot, civilians bug out. Civilians, you do _not_ fire your weapons unless it’s a last resort,” Peregrine ordered, glaring fiercely at the young man. Only after Byron nodded did Peregrine gesture sharply. The soldiers, all except for John, swarmed forward.

Subtly, John moved in front of Sherlock, thinking not just to protect him — the vision of a horde of zombies behind that door was now etched in his mind like a nightmare — but to keep him from rushing ahead of the security team with his usual lack of self-preservation.

The fact that _John_ wanted to be up there was entirely irrelevant. For only the second time in his life, he was torn between wanting to hang back in relative safety with the civilians and get right up front, into the thick of things. And for the second time in his life, he made the same decision, tensing himself, shifting his grip on the SA80, watching like a hawk as one soldier — presumably Branson — depressed the handle on the right-hand door and gave it a push.

“The doors open in; RIs can’t pull open doors, only push,” Sherlock explained softly, a ghost of warm breath along John’s neck making him nearly jump out of his skin in surprise. The taller man had leaned down a bit to whisper loudly in John’s ear.

“I swear, I’m putting a damned bell on you,” John muttered, not for the first time wondering how someone so blasted tall could move so silently.

Sherlock let out an amused snort; apparently, he was positively ecstatic at the thought of these RIs, which was a damned sight better than the naked fear John had seen in his eyes back at the flat. Or maybe the amphetamines had taken effect sooner than expected.

The entry hall was small and had the look of a prison, not a reception or waiting area. The power was off, and the only illumination came from the torches on their SA80s. The room was a bland, industrial beige, with yellowing grey linoleum underfoot. The only furniture was a substantial counter in the centre of the room, a sort of built-in desk that could serve as a safe firing position to cover all four doors into the room.

Forsythe and Byron seemed a little spooked, which was fine by John. At least Byron wasn’t looking at this as a video game or movie anymore. Sherlock seemed nonplussed, using his own SA80’s torch to track a line of light through the upper corners of the room, where John saw CCTV cameras had been mounted.

Keying his radio, Sherlock said, “We need to restore power to the facility.”

Peregrine answered immediately, with a little snap of irritation in his voice: “It’s on the list, Mr Holmes.”

John caught Sherlock’s wrist before he could respond. Their eyes met in the darkness, and John gave a little shake of his head. Sherlock huffed in irritation but subsided.

Satisfied Sherlock had let the matter drop, Peregrine called for status from the door teams. Immediately, Zang answered, “Forward, sir.” His voice was calm and steady — the type of calm and steady tone that wouldn’t spook the civilians, but had every soldier on immediate high alert. Which meant, of course, that Sherlock noticed, and smoothly advanced beside John, swinging the muzzle of his SA80 forward to shine on the door opposite the ones they’d entered.

“There, sir,” Zang said as Major Peregrine approached, swinging his SA80 around to illuminate the area inside the square counter.

Taller than John by six inches, Sherlock barely had to lean over the counter. “Ah,” he said in a deeply satisfied voice, smiling, and quickly hopped up and over.

“Sherlock!” The reprimand came automatically, louder than Peregrine’s startled, “Holmes!” but they were both too late to stop Sherlock from dropping down behind the desk, next to the body of a black-garbed soldier. In the light from a half-dozen SA80s, the blood pooling below the body and splashed over the inner sides of the counter looked garish.

John dragged in a breath, almost shaking with relief that the corpse was just that — a _corpse,_ not a zombie, an inanimate body with several neat bullet holes and not a single bite mark to be seen. Still, he had to look away, and immediately realized no one was covering the forward doors.

“Zang!” he barked, at exactly the same moment as Pritchard.

“Eyes forward!” she snapped, and Zang rushed back to cover the door. The two captains, current and retired, exchanged tense, humourless smiles.

Inside the confines of the desk area, Forsythe had joined Sherlock, and the two were crouching down to examine the body. John frowned at that, feeling like his position at Sherlock’s side had been usurped, and walked around to the opening in the counter.

“A zombie didn’t do this,” Forsythe said, the words coming out ragged with relief.

In his most contemptuous voice, Sherlock said, “How reassuring to have such an expert opinion. If the corpse had been infected, the dogs would have warned us. John! Perhaps you have some insight?”

“Here now,” Forsythe objected. “I’m on forensics —”

“You’re a virologist,” Sherlock snapped as John finally made it to his side. “If you had a tenth the battlefield experience that Dr Watson does, then _maybe_ you’d be useful here.”

“Not helping,” John muttered, giving Sherlock a push that was a bit harder than it should have been. He moved out of the way, though, and John knelt down, politely telling Forsythe, “Sorry. He’s always like this.”

“We need to know who did this,” Sherlock said quietly as he crouched down beside John.

Carefully shoving the muzzle of Sherlock’s SA80 away, John tucked his own weapon between his arm and his body and unclipped his hand-torch, using it to start searching the corpse. “See if the weapon’s been — Where’s his gun?” he asked, realizing the corpse lacked both a rifle and a handgun, though there was a rifle sling across the chest and a handgun holster on the left thigh.

Sherlock nodded. “Precisely,” he said grimly.

Immediately, John’s thoughts went to the innumerable terrorist organizations suspected of building all sorts of weapons of mass destruction. Out beyond the counter, he could hear Peregrine issuing orders, but the quiet, horrific thoughts that filled John’s mind had dulled everything beyond the corpse and Sherlock to a dull buzz.

He pulled a handful of nitrile gloves from his sleeve pocket and shoved a couple of them at Sherlock, who didn’t argue. After putting them on, John retrieved emergency shears from the right calf pocket of his trousers. They were strong enough to cut through uniform fabric and thick webbing. He started slicing up through the dead man’s shirt and combat harness.

The hiss-and-click of the shears covered his soft whisper to Sherlock: “If this Solanum gets out...”

Sherlock’s face was only illuminated by light reflected off the pale grey Formica covering the solidly built counter, but that was enough for John to see his expression. The fear was back, smothering the excitement of the challenge at hand. “I know.”

John let out a breath and wiped the shears clean on the dead man’s sleeve. He replaced them and stepped over the corpse to crouch opposite Sherlock. “Hold the light for me — and keep that muzzle safe,” he added, flicking a glance at Sherlock’s rifle.

With a grimace, Sherlock tucked the weapon as John’s was, and then added the light of his hand-torch to John’s. They both leaned in to start examining the wounds.

“Front entry, close range. Closer than the front door — no more than three or four feet,” John said, puzzled. “One dead centre of mass, probably nicked the breastbone. Another to the right, looks like it hit the lung. Either one would’ve been fatal. Double-tapped, like you’re taught in police and civilian protection, but...”

“He could’ve been wearing body armour. The facility was dark. He’s in all-black.”

“Why not go for the head?”

Sherlock frowned. “The shooter knew his target wasn’t wearing body armor.”

“Fuck.” John glanced across the body and met Sherlock’s gaze. “Want me to retrieve the rounds? Check the calibre?”

“You know what it is.”

John grimaced, looking back at the wounds, and slowly nodded. “Seven-six-twos,” he said softly. “AKs?”

“A logical assumption,” Sherlock agreed. “Reliable, commonly available, manufactured all over the world.”

“Overkill from three feet,” John pointed out. “Why not use a handgun? It’s quieter.”

“This is an isolated island. No need to be quiet.”

“Poor bastard,” John said with a quiet sigh, finding the forceps to start digging into the centre wound to retrieve the fatal round.

“John,” Sherlock scolded abruptly. When John looked at him, he was surprised to see Sherlock’s expression was sympathetic, in a grim, determined sort of way. “Really, John, which would you prefer? A bite, hours of agony, and then reanimation, or a clean —”

He went silent, his eyes widening, going to John’s left shoulder.

John shook his head, swallowing. They’d never discussed Afghanistan beyond terse words (“Another nightmare?” “Yeah.”) and John had never let Sherlock see the scars. “No. You’re right. It’s cleaner.”

“Then they’re the lucky ones.”

“You think Bravo Team’s dead,” Pritchard interrupted. John and Sherlock both looked up to see her leaning over the desk, visible only in silhouette.

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said grimly. “I know they are.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Their hearing isn’t so acute that we need to tiptoe, but unnecessary noise isn’t —”

“Sherlock,” John hissed back over his shoulder.

Sherlock paused for just a moment, looking spectral in the bobbing gun-lights flickering through the dark hallway. His pupils were huge, giving him an uncharacteristically worried look that unfortunately matched what John knew was going through his head. He declaimed (John found the word appropriate, given how theatrical Sherlock could get when showing off) only when he had an audience or when he was nervous. And right now, he had no audience.

“Unnecessary noise.”

Sherlock nodded and shut his mouth, though his nostrils flared in irritation. John could live with that; if he was irritated, he wouldn’t be relaxed and blase about this.

In one of the offices upstairs, they’d found two more members of Bravo Team — at least, they assumed it was Bravo Team — and one or two unfriendlies. The explosives that had taken out the three (or four) soldiers made it difficult to get an accurate ID or body count. Sherlock had taken every second of his allotted five minutes to ignore the bodies, leaving them to John, and focus instead on God-knew-what. Explosive residues, John figured, since most of his attention had been taken up by the scorch marks that remained after the office’s fire sprinklers had triggered.

John’s radio crackled as an unfamiliar voice said, “Charlie Team, this is Alfa Five. We have unidentified comms traffic, encrypted, originating your location, over.”

“Charlie Seven acknowledges, over,” Dawkins, their comms officer, answered quietly.

“We’re tracking and will update. Out.”

Peregrine spoke up: “All right, team. We didn’t need confirmation, but there it is. Remember, all contacts are to be considered hostile. Lethal force has been authorized.”

Sherlock turned to John, speaking without engaging his radio. “There are at least forty major terrorist organizations that might know about the RIs.” That was another sign of nerves: usually, he meandered through his Mind Palace in blissful silence, which meant John was free to read or catch up on television.

“Isn’t that your brother’s problem?”

“If they get hold of a viable Solanum sample? It’s _everyone’s_ problem,” Sherlock snapped, lifting his hands to rake his fingers through his hair.

Pritchard emerged from the office she’d been checking and walked over to them. “Let’s not buy trouble we don’t have.”

 _Terrorists, zombies, and a countdown to nuclear annihilation,_ John thought grimly. As far as trouble went, there wasn’t much more that they _could_ buy.

Slowly, the team worked its way down the hallway to the next security door. Like the others, it had been neatly, professionally opened with a plasma cutter. Half the team went through, followed by John, who turned to drag Sherlock along by one arm before he could get distracted examining the cut.

“John, that cutter’s fuel can’t last forever. If the cut’s ragged —”

“Then we’ll have the enemy bottlenecked at some security door up ahead or holed up in a lab.”

And there was more proof of Sherlock’s mental state: he just scowled and nodded, following John into the stairwell.

  


~~~

  


The facility map had looked innocuous enough, but there was no way for architectural plans, even top secret ones, to convey the actual horror of descending beneath an island into a basement that was filled with either a hostile military force, zombies, or both. Meant for emergency use, the stairwell was illuminated in dull yellow, minimizing the dizzying effect of the gun-lights sweeping across the walls.

The military members of the team moved with admirable professionalism, weapons at the ready, keeping close to the railing so they could look down and ahead. One of the dog-handlers, Carter, was in the lead with his German shepherd, Engel, followed by Rangarajan, Branson, and Zang. To Sherlock’s apparent displeasure, Major Peregrine shepherded Dr Forsythe and Byron behind them, leaving Sherlock and John to follow in their wake, with Pritchard right behind Sherlock. The rest of the team, including Dawkins and the other dog handler, Raines, brought up the rear.

There were three emergency stairwells in the building. The two on either side led up to the administration levels. Only one led down into the secure basement. It was probably a gross violation of health and safety regulations, but in the event of an emergency, everyone probably agreed it was better to lose a few scientists and researchers to fire than risk having the zombies escape.

There were three basement levels: maintenance on sub-basement 1, diagnostic labs on sub-basement 2, and containment — the Cold Vault — on sub-basement 3. Each had only one access door off the stairwell.

The maintenance access door was sealed with a holographic sticker, covering both the door and jamb. The sticker had a hair-fine web of silver running through it. Wires led from the sticker down to a black box on the floor.

Carter’s dog paused to sniff at the box and the door before moving farther along the landing. Following close, Rangarajan went to the door and knelt down. A touch illuminated a keypad on top of the box, where a red light blinked three times before going dark again.

“Armed and secure, sir,” he reported, standing back up.

“Bravo Team’s verified no hostiles on this level,” Pritchard added quietly to the civilians. “Opening the door breaks the circuit and sounds an alarm.” He activated his radio and said, “Proceed down to SB2.”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said dryly. He didn’t activate his radio, but he was a natural at projecting his voice. “Let’s depend on a _loud noise_ to contain any threat that Bravo Team may have missed, assuming _they_ were the ones to put this in place at all.”

Used to Sherlock’s outbursts of unexpected insight, John held his tongue, trying to stumble along in the wake of Sherlock’s deductions. In this case, it took seconds for him to realise what Sherlock meant — seconds that only fuelled Major Peregrine’s ire at what he saw as Sherlock’s insubordination.

“We’re following protocol that _you_ helped write, Mr Holmes,” Peregrine said coldly.

“Protocol against _reanimated infected_ , Peregrine — not against a hostile force breaching your supposedly unbreachable —”

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” John cut in before Sherlock could gain enough traction to tear Peregrine apart. “He’s right, Major. We don’t know who applied that seal.”

“Or if it was _correctly_ applied,” Sherlock added insistently.

Peregrine’s jaw set, but he was too practical to argue. He took a deep breath and ordered, “Dawkins! Get up there and re-seal the door.”

“Don’t tamper with the other seal,” Sherlock said, a glint of satisfaction in his eye. “It could have been altered to warn them by radio.”

“Or it could be trapped,” John added, thinking of IEDs and the dangers of opening doors.

Dawkins looked to Peregrine, who nodded. As Dawkins headed down to the door, Sherlock smirked at John, who turned away before anyone could see his mad, tight grin.

  


~~~

  


“No seal, sir,” Pritchard reported over the radio before the rest of the group came in sight of the door to the labs. “Repeat, no seal.”

“What the bloody hell’s that mean?” Byron asked sharply.

Sherlock, who’d never heard a rhetorical question he didn’t want to answer, said, “It means Bravo Team —”

“We’ll figure it out,” John interrupted. “We’re here to find out what happened to Bravo Team.”

“Actually, we’re here to ensure there’s been no breach — which, obviously —”

“Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” John said tightly.

“We’re _not_ here to speculate,” Major Peregrine said firmly. “Lieutenant, secure the stairs. Captain, the door.” With a gleam in his eye, Peregrine turned to John, adding, “Captain Watson, keep our civilians close.”

“Sir.”

Much as John hated the idea of leaving behind almost half their fighting force, there was no alternative, other than to withdraw and order the destruction of the facility, and John knew Peregrine wouldn’t allow that unless there was no other choice. Hell, even John didn’t like the idea of setting off a nuke in the bloody Bristol Channel. How far beyond the island would the fallout spread? How many civilians would be uprooted — or, worse, killed?

He stayed close to Sherlock and tried to keep to the middle of the pack, but Sherlock would have none of that. He pushed forward as soon as they were through the door and into the corridor beyond, leaving John to swear under his breath and follow as close as possible. Fortunately, Captain Pritchard was all too aware of the civilians in her charge, and she blocked Sherlock from pushing ahead to where Raines and his dog, Toby, were on point, with Thatcher directly behind.

There was no emergency lighting. The team’s torches swept dizzyingly over the walls and floor. The hallway was short, ending at a T-intersection. Ahead, two steel double doors had been blown open, metal bent, hinges damaged. A smashed security keypad dangled by its wires.

“Thatcher, Langworth, hold position here,” Pritchard ordered, giving Raines a nod.

Raines leaned down and unclipped Toby’s lead. Snuffling, the dog slipped into the dark room —

And let out a low, warning growl and backed slowly out of the room.

John’s heart skipped. A shudder went through him. He deliberately stepped back against Sherlock as if to bodily push him away from the door. Sherlock caught his arm for a moment and squeezed.

Silently, Pritchard turned off the torch on her SA80, let the weapon fall against her thigh, and held up her combat shotgun, gesturing towards it with her free hand. As she unclipped the shotgun and turned on its torch, the other soldiers — including John — did the same. Less gracefully, the civilians followed suit.

Pritchard pointed to Thatcher and Langworth, gesturing them into the room. Then she looked at John, who nodded, understanding, and moved up behind them. He wasn’t surprised that Sherlock followed.

The double doors let into an antechamber. Beyond was the type of airlock that John recognised from his biohazard response training. Pressure differentials, HEPA filters, and sealed doors were meant to keep pathogens from escaping the lab. Workers would only enter the lab in full protective suits with clean air supply lines and would exit through an air or chemical shower.

But the containment system had been breached. Destroyed. The thick polycarbonate walls had been shattered, and John couldn’t hear the hum of ventilation fans. His skin crawled. Reminding himself that the virus wasn’t airborne was no comfort. Who the hell knew what else these mad scientists had been studying?

The two soldiers stepped through the broken polycarbonate wall and swept their torches in an arc. The walls were lined with familiar equipment, workbenches, and sinks. Line of sight deeper into the lab was blocked by clusters of cubicles with high privacy walls.

Feeling very much the outsider, John followed Thatcher and Langworth at a distance, staying back out of their way. They moved left, to the end of the lab. Thatcher started down the side corridor and quickly moved out of sight. Langworth pointed to John and gestured him down one of the aisles before taking the next aisle for himself.

John turned to Sherlock. It was pointless to tell him to stay behind. Instead, he flattened his hand on Sherlock’s chest and held him at arm’s length long enough that he’d hopefully get the point. Then, caught up in the memory of clearing buildings in an urban battlefield, he started down the aisle.

  


~~~

  


John froze in mid-step, turning his head slightly. The faint sound changed subtly. He turned the other way —

 _Aha_. He lifted a clenched fist, put his open hand to his ear, held up one finger, and then pointed ahead and right, all before remembering that he had Sherlock at his back, rather than a proper soldier.

 _Bugger_.

He didn’t dare look away from the faint crinkle of plastic. He couldn’t risk whispering a warning to Sherlock.

Hoping like hell that Sherlock had deduced his apprehension, John turned, aiming his torch — and his shotgun — towards the noise. He sidestepped. Turned. Saw what was moving.

A little huff of breath was the only sound he made, the only hint of the shout that wanted to escape. He was a doctor. A soldier. He’d seen the worst that humankind had to offer.

But this was no longer human.

His finger twitched on the trigger as he lowered the barrel, taking direct aim at the blood-smeared plastic facemask. One mangled hand, stripped bare of its glove, slowly lifted. The fingernails, John saw with horror, had been torn off. Blood flowed from the torn flesh as the hand rose to the mask and then scraped down, trembling, leaving ragged zig-zag streaks down the facemask. The other hand was cuffed to the desk. The plastic cuff of the protective suit was worn through at the wrist. The flesh had been gouged from the back of the hand in deep channels, as though torn by fingernails.

John swallowed, throat tight. He wanted to warn Sherlock, to drop a hand from his shotgun to key his radio and to warn everyone, but they were free to open fire on anything that moved.

One and a half seconds after stepping into view of the infected lab worker, John pulled the trigger.


	6. Chapter 6

“Evidence of excessive perspiration, swelling at the joints. The — the damage to the fingers indicates numbness of the extremities. Six —” Dr Forsythe glanced back into the gore-splattered cubicle. He swallowed and turned quickly away. “Six or seven hours since infection set in. Unknown vector.”

“Not unknown,” Sherlock said contemptuously.

John bit back a sigh, privately relieved that he was out of sight of whatever Sherlock was doing to the dead man in the name of the investigation.

“I saw no bite marks,” Dr Forsythe said tightly.

“Because nothing bit him.” Sherlock rose into sight, head and shoulders visible over the wall of the cubicle.

Forsythe spun, horror in his eyes. “Then what’s —”

“Injection,” Sherlock said. “And not accidental.” He stepped theatrically out into the aisle and smirked, on familiar ground. Zombies weren’t his area, but murder definitely was.

Major Peregrine turned his attention to Sherlock. “You have thirty seconds.”

“It’s obvious.”

“Sherlock...” John warned. He stepped close behind Forsythe and looked around his shoulder.

Sherlock glanced at John, who saw a flash of fear in Sherlock’s silver-blue eyes, tension drawing crow’s feet at the corners. “This man,” Sherlock continued more calmly, “was targeted. Threatened with infection. Possibly even deliberately infected and promised an antidote.”

“There’s an antidote?” Byron demanded from another cubicle, where he’d been examining the smashed remains of a computer.

A hint of contempt came back to Sherlock’s voice as he drawled, “Of course there’s no antidote. It was a threat — and an effective one at that.”

“Effective for _what?_ ” Forsythe asked.

Sherlock pointed back into the cubicle. “Getting him to access whatever they wanted off this computer.”

“This man was a scientist,” Peregrine said. “He’d know there was no antidote.

“If you were dying, wouldn’t you seize upon _any_ hope?” Sherlock looked back down at the dead man. “The attackers deliberately singled out this man. _Deliberately_ infected him and demanded that he access the computer — and then they destroyed it.”

_“Ha!”_

Every head turned at Byron’s shout. Peregrine asked, “You have something for us, Byron?”

Byron popped into sight, standing on the desk, and leaned on the precarious wall. “Fucking movies, mate. Thugs smashing a bloody monitor — as if that’s going to destroy _data_.”

“Can you recover what’s on _this_ computer?” Sherlock demanded, pointing back into the cubicle with the dead man.

Byron shrugged and leaped down to shove past John and Forsythe. He gawked for two seconds at the corpse. Then he swallowed and turned away to look at the computer. “Yeah. Yeah, probably,” he said, the cocky edge completely gone from his voice.

“We’re not staying long enough to try,” Major Peregrine said. “Grab the hard drive and whatever else you need. We’re on a deadline.”

“We need that information now, Major,” Sherlock insisted, watching as Byron started fussing with the slim black computer, barely bigger than a laptop, on the desk. “If we know _exactly_ what they were after, we can find out who they were.”

“If we’re not out by zero-hour, we’re all _dead_ , Holmes,” Peregrine countered. “Byron, pack up. We have the rest of this level and SB3 to search.”

  


~~~

  


Something was nagging at John’s mind — something beyond the _secret government laboratory_ concept, or the _zombies are real_ issue, or even the massive _we’re in a secret government laboratory where the zombies may be loose_ crisis. No, this ‘something’ was more common. Mundane.

While Langworth, Thatcher, and Raines and the dog cleared the rest of the lab, John stayed by the door beside Sherlock in hopes of keeping him out of trouble. This lab was spacious; it would’ve been a pleasure to work here, if not for the bloody zombies. Much nicer than the labs at Bart’s, where he’d had to fight for the use of the equipment. Thankfully, he’d been something of an early bird back then, and there were only so many workstations to be shared between all the students. During the day, there was barely enough room to get to the sink.

“Did anyone tell you how many people worked here?” he asked, glancing at Sherlock. It was so disorienting, seeing Sherlock with a radio headset, kitted out in combat gear. Under any other circumstances — ones not involving bloody _zombies_ — John might well have found himself uncomfortably aroused.

Instead of answering him, Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” he breathed. “ _Oh!_ That’s it, John!”

“What’s ‘it’?” he asked, too late. Sherlock was already haring off after Major Peregrine, who was standing in the hall, speaking with Major Pritchard and Dawkins. Wary of leaving Sherlock unsupervised with two senior officers, John went after him.

“Major,” Sherlock interrupted. “How many staff were onsite when the alarm went off?”

A muscle in Peregrine’s jaw twitched. “Why?”

“Just tell me,” Sherlock snapped.

“It could be important, sir,” John added smoothly, falling — with some resignation — into his customary role as Sherlock’s social handler.

Eyes narrowed, Peregrine said, “Seven. The night staff is —”

“Seven,” Sherlock repeated, rounding on John. “One dead security guard at the front desk and one infected technician here. Where are the other five?”

John shrugged. “They could be anywhere. They could be dead, carried off...”

Sherlock shook his head. “Then why not carry _him_ off?” he asked, pointing back where they’d left the dead man. “If he had such important information, why not take him and the computer? More to the point, _how_ did they infect him?”

“It... it was an injection,” John said, wondering where the hell Sherlock was going with this.

“Acquired _here_ ,” Sherlock insisted. “They came here specifically for data. A small team, probably no more than would fit in a single helicopter. They come here, kill the security guard. Probably one or two other guards roaming the halls. Upstairs is deserted — all admin staffers, unimportant. They come _downstairs_ and find a handful of people working in the lab. Say, four people. One, they infect. The other three...”

“Why _not_ take the other three?” Peregrine asked.

“They didn’t need them. They didn’t even _need_ whatever they used to infect the other technician. They needed _data_. The key to this isn’t here — it’s —”

_“Incoming! Grenade!”_

The shout threw John into motion. He looked down, saw nothing, but still grabbed hold of Sherlock and threw him at the door to the lab. For an instant, Sherlock resisted; then he staggered and lunged inside, clutching at John’s harness.

Just past the doorway, John wrenched free and raised his shotgun. Peregrine rushed in, followed by Dawkins, with Captain Pritchard covering their escape. She kicked the door shut; the loud crash made everyone jump.

Silence followed.

Seconds passed.

“Lieutenant, report,” ordered Major Peregrine.

For another five seconds, nothing happened. Heart pounding, John kept steady aim at the door. Sherlock stood close at John’s back.

Then a male voice answered over the radio, “Well, it took you long enough to get down here, Charlie Team. Not exactly a model of efficiency, are you?”


	7. Chapter 7

John saw Sherlock draw breath to answer and quickly held up a hand, warning him to silence. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he closed his mouth, lips in a thin line, and looked away.

“Identify yourself,” Peregrine ordered.

“No need for introductions. We’ll be gone shortly.”

John scowled. The voice was deep and gravelly, as if the speaker were more accustomed to shouting than speaking calmly.

He’d heard that voice before, but where? When?

“What —” Peregrine began.

“Major, this will be a great deal more efficient if you’d kindly _shut up_ and let Mr Holmes take over our discussion.” The man, whoever he was, spoke with absolute authority — the expectation of prompt obedience.

“Who the _hell_ —”

“Mr Holmes,” the man interrupted, “if Major Peregrine breathes one more word over this line, I will execute Lieutenant Rangarajan.” He pronounced the name flawlessly.

Memory hit. “Diego Garcia,” John muttered, looking at Sherlock, who frowned. John shook his head and turned to Major Peregrine. “Colonel Moran, sir. That’s Colonel Moran.”

Without activating his radio, Peregrine said, “He’s retired —”

“Freelance, I suspect,” Sherlock muttered grimly. Over the radio, he said, “Colonel, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“Holmes. Good to know Major Peregrine remembers me. God knows he’s not memorable in return,” Moran said with a harsh laugh like a dry, deep cough.

A wicked light came into Sherlock’s eyes. “We’re in agreement there,” he answered bluntly. “We cleaned up your mess here. The scientist you left behind.”

“A little gift, to show you how serious I am,” Moran answered good-naturedly. “Now listen carefully, Mr Holmes, and no one else has to die.”

“You have what you want,” Sherlock said, frowning, though no hint of it showed in his voice. “You have your data.”

Moran barked out a laugh like a gunshot. “And now I want something else, Mr Holmes.”

“What? You have the virus. You have your —”

“You have a dog in there with you,” Moran interrupted. “I want you to bring me that dog. _You_ , Mr Holmes. Not the handler. I want you to disarm and bring the dog to the exit door.”

Sherlock jerked his hand away from the radio. “The _dog?_ ” he asked incredulously.

Raines spoke up tentatively, from the back of the room. “Toby and Engel are two of the only four RI-sniffers in the world.”

“He has the virus, though,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “With that, he could train his own.”

“Sorry, but it’s not that simple,” Raines said a bit more forcefully, warming to the subject. “All animals avoid any hint of Solanum, but only when it’s reanimated a host. Toby’s trained to sniff it out _in a human_. He can detect pre-symptomatic victims.”

“As entertaining as it could be to wait while you puzzle this out,” Moran interrupted, “if you don’t comply with my terms, then your Lieutenant Rangarajan dies. Of course, I’ll leave the _how_ up to you. In fact, I’ll even inject him in his little finger so you can decide between cutting off his arm in the vain hope of saving him or taking the more merciful route of destroying his brain. Sixty seconds.”

“The grenade,” John said, mind racing. “Tear gas, most likely — he wouldn’t risk the other dog with fentanyl or another sleep agent.”

“Either we comply or he gases us and takes the dog,” Sherlock said. “Possibly infecting us out of spite.”

“We all knew the risks of coming here,” Major Peregrine said grimly.

Sherlock spun away, releasing the SA80 and shotgun from his harness. He discarded both on the nearest workbench as he headed for where Raines was crouched with his arm around his seated mongrel zombie-sniffer.

“Give me the lead,” Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

“No!” Raines clenched the lead, locking his arm around the dog’s body.

“Give it —”

“Thirty seconds,” Moran interrupted.

“Do it, Raines,” Major Peregrine ordered.

Glaring murderously at Sherlock, Raines stood and extended the lead. The dog rose to all fours and obediently followed Sherlock towards the door. “You have what I asked you to bring?” Sherlock put out his hand.

John blinked in surprise. Then he nodded and unclipped his SA80 and shotgun, dropping both onto the workbench.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Going with you.”

“Fifteen seconds,” Moran said. “Are you at the door yet, Mr Holmes?”

John didn’t bother to wait. He went out into the hallway and started for the stairwell door, calm and composed despite the adrenaline singing in his veins. Zombies below, a murderous traitor ahead, Sherlock at his side, and John had never felt more bloody alive. Christ, he was insane.

At the stairwell door, John paused, glancing at Sherlock, who nodded and triggered his radio. “I’m here now, Moran.”

Smugly, Moran said, “Good boy. You’re going to open the door six inches. There’s a gas mask on the floor. Take it, close the door, and put the gas mask on the dog. Securely, now. We wouldn’t want Fido to inhale any of this nasty gas.”

John reached for the door handle, but Sherlock waved him away. Then he took a deep breath and crouched down, looking up at John questioningly. John took a deep breath, pinched his nose closed, squeezed his eyes shut, and nodded. Sherlock opened the door with one hand, snatched the gas mask off the floor, and slammed the door. John moved away, exhaled, and blinked to make sure his vision was clear. Enough of the gas had dissipated that he could function.

Toby growled and sneezed, backing up to the end of his lead. Sherlock walked a couple of steps away, saying, “Shh, it’s all right,” in a soothing tone John had only heard Sherlock use with children who were witnesses. He ruffled Toby’s scruffy fur, and the dog licked at his face. John braced for an explosion that never came. Sherlock just said, “Good boy. That’s a good dog.”

Apparently, Sherlock liked dogs. John never would have guessed.

John moved to help Sherlock fit the gas mask in place. Toby was apparently trained to wear one; he held still, allowing them to buckle the large mask around his neck, fastening it tight just above the collar. John worked a finger under the edge, testing the fit. It wouldn’t be air-tight, but it should be good enough to get Toby through any lingering tear gas and out into fresh air.

Once they were done, John whispered, “Vatican cameos.” When Sherlock nodded, John went back to the door, on the side with the hinges, where he’d be hidden. Then he drew the SIG.

Sherlock followed leading Toby, who was walking a bit awkwardly. After giving the dog one last pat, Sherlock triggered his radio. “It’s done, Moran. Now what?”

“Now, you open the door. Slowly, both hands in view.”

“But the gas,” Sherlock protested with false worry in his voice; the look he levelled at John was anything but false.

“It won’t kill you. Now, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and opened the door. His left hand held Toby’s leash. As he moved his right hand from the handle to the edge of the door, he lifted two fingers.

Just two enemies? There had to be others, elsewhere — up or down the stairs. Two people, no matter how skilled, couldn’t have assaulted this laboratory with any hope of success.

“Which one of you is —” Sherlock asked, not triggering the radio.

Moran cut him off over the radio. “No time to chat, Holmes. Send out the dog. Then close the door.”

Why was Moran using the radio? He had to be out of range. John gritted his teeth and blinked his stinging eyes, hoping like hell that his aim wouldn’t be too badly off.

“And then what?” Sherlock demanded, shouting rather than dropping one hand to trigger the push-to-talk.

“Then I leave. I suggest you spend your time getting your team out here to safety. There’s only so much tear gas a body can safely tolerate.”

A female voice, this one muffled, said, “Drop the lead and back off.”

Sherlock turned his head to the right. John marked approximately where he was looking. “He won’t go to you unless you call him,” he said, turning to look forward as he finished his statement.

 _One right, one ahead,_ John thought, stepping back out of the door’s arc.

“What’s his name?” the woman asked.

“Cameo!” Sherlock shouted, and he dropped out of the way, holding the door open.

John lunged into the doorway. Aimed for the gas mask ahead. Pulled the trigger, already looking right through stinging eyes.

Second target was moving. Chest or mask? Only two metres to the target — mask. John pulled the trigger while the last gunshot’s echoes were still ringing in his ears.

Only as the second body fell did John look down. Rangarajan, Branson, and Zang were all down and unconscious, wrists zip-tied to the staircase railing. All three were breathing wetly through clogged sinuses and drooling mouths. There was no sign of the dog, Engel.

John didn’t hesitate. “Pritchard, survivors!” he snapped into his radio. He jumped over the bodies and ran for the stairs, SIG aimed up. The tear gas burned at his lungs, clogging his nose, forcing him to breathe in gasps. He remembered his exposure training and kept moving, heading for the cleaner air up top. Over the radio, Peregrine demanded a report, and John heard shouting from below, where the others were converging on Rangarajan’s team, but he kept running. He was the extra body on the team. Dr Forsythe was more than capable of seeing to the injured.

Something dark flashed in his peripheral vision higher up the stairs, barely illuminated by the emergency lighting. John fired while running. His shot didn’t hit, but the enemy’s rhythm was broken. When John rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, he saw two bodies, one strangely misshapen, as if humpbacked. Fear stabbed through John, irrational and instinctive, before he remembered that zombies couldn’t run up stairs.

John fired, aiming below whatever burden the enemy was carrying. His target let out a shout and fell, and a dog rolled free. Engel — the other fireteam’s RI-sniffer dog.

The first man turned and fired a quick burst. John jumped back to duck out of sight, only to slam into a slender, familiar body. _Sherlock_.

The gunshot hit John like a punch to the ribs. Air gusted out of his lungs. Panic spiked again as he braced for an old, familiar pain that never came. Hand steady, he raised his gun and fired. His target dove out of sight, either grazed or unharmed.

Take cover or pursue?

Sherlock, damn him — he’d followed, but he’d have to look out for himself. The sniffer dogs had to be a ruse. Whatever the enemy really wanted was too big, too _apocalyptic_ for John to allow himself to worry about Sherlock. It would kill him if Sherlock got wounded, but these were bloody _zombies_ , for God’s sake.

So he ran, fumbling at his torch before he got it turned on and pointed ahead, into the foyer. He saw lights outside, at the helipad. A helicopter. _Their_ helicopter? He couldn’t make it out, but the Tornadoes wouldn’t let an unfamiliar aircraft land, would they?

Unless...

_Unless the chopper had the proper authorisation codes._

Alfa Five’s message, about a hundred years earlier — something about unidentified comms traffic.

“Shit, shit.” John dropped the torch and fired at the three people running for the chopper. His bullets hit the glass windows with no effect. He hit his radio, cutting in on the chatter, and snapped, “Dawkins! Have Alfa Team fire on that chopper!”

 _“What?”_ Dawkins answered.

“Report, Watson,” Major Peregrine demanded.

“They have a chopper, Major! The Tornadoes aren’t firing on it. They must have our authorisation codes!” John shouted as he rushed around the desk.

“I can’t reach Alfa Team,” Dawkins said. “External comms are down.”

Swearing under his breath, John pulled open the door and shouted, _“Colonel Moran!”_

The figure in the lead stopped and spun. John couldn’t see his face, but he knew — he _knew_ it was Moran. The side lights from the Lynx picked out the straight, matte black edges of the rifle in Moran’s arms.

Thirty metres. Low-light conditions. Wind off the channel, air currents fucked up because of the Lynx. And it had been far too long since John had spent any time on a firing range.

But the SIG fitted into John’s hand as if he’d been born with it, and if he lacked for practice, he’d never lacked for confidence and willpower. He raised the SIG, watching dispassionately as Moran brought up the rifle.

They fired, gunshots loud, echoes attenuated by the wind whipped up by the rotors. Brass chimed on the pavement.

John’s leg buckled. He compensated automatically, pulling the trigger, readjusting his aim between each shot even as he went down. Cold spread through his body like a starburst, but he kept firing, dropping his hand as Moran finally went down, until the SIG’s slide locked back, empty.

Then, satisfied that he’d won, he closed his eyes, hoping like hell that Sherlock didn’t do anything stupid with no one to keep him safe.


	8. Chapter 8

As soon as Bond swiped his ID card, a blue light flashed. The security guard on duty jumped in surprise, asking, “What’s that, then?”

“Priority alert,” Bond said grimly, pushing his way through the metal detector. Alarms went off, deafeningly loud. He ignored them and headed for the lifts, snatching the mobile from his belt. As expected, he had a new secure text message: _Priority one escort. Report to helipad 2._

Bond swore under his breath. As soon as a lift arrived, he pushed through the early morning crowd, shouting, “Priority one! Out of the way!”

A few people ignored him or didn’t know any better. They crowded in behind him as he swiped his card and pressed the button for the roof. If the building’s control system was working, Bond’s summons to the roof would take priority over the floors selected by the other passengers.

When the lift started moving, he acknowledged the text, as per protocols. Then, in violation of protocols, he sent a second text: _Priority one assignment to helipad. Did we start a war?_

The lift had passed five floors before he got a response: _No. Keep me posted._

 _Not helpful,_ Bond answered, though he wasn’t surprised. Alec Trevelyan was his closest friend and the only backup he trusted in the field, but Alec also wasn’t a morning person. Unless someone was shooting at him, he needed three cups of coffee and a hot shower before he could manage to tie a tie properly.

To Bond’s amusement, the lift bypassed every floor until the roof. “Priority one,” he said when the doors opened into a small, utilitarian hallway with a security guard and a single exit door. Bond had to swipe his keycard again in order to pass the security guard.

It was windy outside, with a light drizzle that felt more like a garden sprinkler than proper rain. On the far helipad, Bond saw a black next-generation Wildcat helicopter, not yet in service. No missiles or guns in sight, which was something of a relief.

Ducking his head, he jogged for the chopper. He opened the door and climbed in, taking a quick glance around. It was kitted out for passenger comfort, with two padded leather seats. Executive transport, then, with one passenger —

“Q?” he asked, startled, as he closed and latched the door.

The Quartermaster gave a tight nod. He reached up to press a button on the roof console and said, “Go.” Immediately, the helicopter lurched nose-down and rose.

Ignoring the safety harness, Bond swivelled his seat to face Q. “You look like hell.”

Q arched a brow at Bond. “Kind of you, 007,” he said blandly, leaning over the side of his seat to pick up a stylish leather messenger bag. “We’ve got — Well, I can’t —” He shook his head. “I really don’t think there’s a good way to explain this.”

This wasn’t Q. He didn’t get rattled. During Silva’s attack while MI6 had been falling apart around him, Q had been calm and steady.

“Just start at the —” Bond said, faltering when Q offered him a holstered gun — and not his usual Walther. He unwrapped the holster straps and drew the heavy, large handgun. Springfield XD(M) .45 calibre. Q handed him a full magazine and a spare round. Automatically, Bond loaded the weapon, chambered a round, then dropped the magazine out so he could load up the spare round.

“We’re going to Frenchay Hospital in Bristol,” Q said, eyes fixed on Bond’s hands.

“My target?” Bond asked, shrugging off his rain-damp jacket.

Q shook his head. “Hopefully none. We’re — We’re visiting someone and then collecting a prisoner to transport back to MI6 for interrogation.”

Bond frowned, sorting out the straps. “Who’s our prisoner?”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

  


~~~

  


“Reanimated...” Bond looked up from the tablet. “Q...”

The Quartermaster nodded, resigned. “Zombies.”

“Zombies.” Bond looked back down at the tablet. He’d gone through the terse, professional after action report of a Captain Anwyn Pritchard, Royal Army with no immediate questions. When he’d started on notes regarding the facility itself, though, things had turned...

Well, _undead_.

“If it’s any comfort, I’m sorely tempted to ask you to shoot the bloody bastard whose idea it probably was,” Q said, turning to look out the small window.

“Who’s that?”

“Mycroft Holmes, chairman of the PM’s Committee for Security and Communications.” Q looked back at Bond. “My older brother, I’m afraid.”

Bond blinked. “Your _brother_ is... what? Hoarding zombies on an island in the Bristol Channel?”

Q’s lips twitched up in a humourless smile. “So it would seem, yes.”

“I’ll never complain about the lack of a family again,” Bond muttered. He set the tablet on his leg, wondering if this luxury military helicopter had a bar. Half-seven in the morning was early, except when zombies were involved.

“You have no idea,” Q said wryly.

Bond shook his head, studying Q’s face, seeing him as a man and not just the Quartermaster for the first time in months — since that first glimpse, back in the National Gallery, really, when Q had been nothing more than a young, annoying stranger. Since then, Q had proven himself a more than capable heir to Major Boothroyd’s department. He had yet to fail Bond.

No, Bond mentally corrected. He _wouldn’t_ fail. Q would do whatever was necessary — take any risk — to support his agents in the field.

“Aren’t you afraid of flying?” Bond asked thoughtlessly.

Q frowned slightly. “My brother is involved in reanimating corpses, Bond. I’ve seen how this goes in the movies. Death by fireball in a bloody helicopter crash is far preferable to what our future could hold if one of these things gets loose.” He met Bond’s eyes with a hint of desperation. Then it was gone, replaced by steady confidence. “It’s all a matter of perspective, really.”

“Before we start cancelling meetings in favour of the apocalypse, this” — Bond picked up the tablet — “says that ‘Solanum’ has existed in nature for millennia. That this ‘zombie virus’ is why Egyptians removed the brains of the dead before mummification.”

“You said ‘apocalypse’, not me. Natural science isn’t my area of expertise, but I’d imagine there’s some unknown counter-agent that keeps outbreaks from spreading to movie-level scenarios. But that doesn’t make it any more pleasant for people caught in an affected zone.” Then Q’s thin, tight smile reappeared, and he said casually, “I confess, I’m glad you’re the first agent who checked in this morning. I was dreading the thought of having to explain this to 009.”

“Nothing will happen to you while I’m here,” Bond promised. It was the sort of empty thing that he’d said a hundred times before, to assets and targets alike. This time, though, he was surprised to find he meant it.

  


~~~

  


“Oh, God, they’re both here,” Q muttered, hesitating as he and Bond rounded a corner.

Bond looked down the corridor to where four people stood outside a patient room. Three wore all black — two kitted for combat, with SA80s and sidearms, and one uniform trousers and a black turtleneck that looked like silk. Incongruously, the fourth man wore a three piece suit in light charcoal. Gieves & Hawkes, if Bond wasn’t mistaken.

“Both?” he asked quietly.

“Mycroft and Sherlock.”

“Sorry?”

Q sighed and started down the corridor with brisk, angry steps. “My brothers. They’re _both_ here.” He didn’t point them out, but he hadn’t mentioned having a brother in military service. Besides, the two armed guards were doing their best to be invisible. That meant the brothers were Three Piece and Silk Shirt. Easy enough targets, Bond thought.

“Ah, Sherrinford,” Three Piece drawled. His gaze flicked over Bond, just for a moment. “Thank you for coming.”

“Have the Colonel brought to the helicopter on the roof. I want to be back in London as soon as possible,” Q ordered.

“There are things we should discuss,” Three Piece protested.

Q lowered his voice. “Anything to be _discussed_ , you can send via email.” He turned to Silk Shirt and gestured at the door. “How is John?”

“In surgery,” Silk Shirt answered, frowning.

“Please give him my best,” Q said sincerely.

Three Piece sighed, staring down his nose at Q. “Sherrinford —”

“Stop,” Q interrupted, the word coming sharp and abrupt like a gunshot. “This is _my_ case now, Mycroft.”

Three Piece — Mycroft — flicked a glance at Bond. Then he gave Q an oily smile, saying, “Now, Sherrinford, we’re all working together on this.”

“No,” Q said, shaking his head. “No, we’re not. _I_ am taking Colonel Moran, and the only thing _you_ will do is ensure that Doctor Watson gets the finest medical care you can arrange.” He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “This is the last of your bloody messes I clean up for you, Mycroft. Next time you overreach, it’s _your_ problem. Not mine.”

Mycroft’s smile never flickered, but Bond knew Q’s threat had hit home. An MI6 executive and the chairman of a committee that reported directly to the PM... Even if Silk Shirt was a nobody, the politics in this family were —

“Bond?”

He pushed aside his thoughts. “Quartermaster?”

“Please see to the prisoner’s secure transfer to our helicopter,” Q said calmly. “I’ll ensure that all the paperwork is done. Without shortcuts,” he added, throwing a scathing look Mycroft’s way.

  


~~~

  


“What condition is he in?” Q shouted, running to where Bond waited beside the helicopter door.

“Three gunshot wounds, mostly closed. He’ll be in a wheelchair for the next couple of weeks. Rather pragmatic about his current situation,” Bond added wryly. “He’s willing to tell us everything we want to know, in exchange for immunity.”

“Bugger that,” Q answered bluntly, reaching for Bond’s jacket. He unbuttoned it and pushed it open, hands flat on Bond’s chest.

For one moment, Bond was held paralysed. Then he gathered his scrambled wits and asked, “Something I can —”

“Aha,” Q interrupted, finding Bond’s cigarette case. “I thought you quit.”

“I did. They’re probably stale.”

“Not nearly as stale as dealing with my brothers,” Q muttered, going back to frisking him.

Bond grimaced. “Q...”

“I know, that was terrible.” Q let out a harsh sigh and dug Bond’s lighter out of his other inside pocket. “Dealing with my brothers does that to me. Poor linguistic humour and an uncontrollable urge towards self-destruction.” He took out a cigarette and shoved the case into Bond’s hands. Bond had to help shelter the lighter from the swirling air currents so Q could get the cigarette lit.

“The other one didn’t seem so bad,” Bond said, trying to find any sort of silver lining to this mess. When Q took a deep drag and shot him a questioning look, he said, “The one in the silk turtleneck?”

“Oh. Sherlock.” Q waved his hand, exhaling smoke. “He’s a freelance detective who does drugs to irritate Mycroft.” He took another drag, frowning. “And when he’s bored.”

“Christ,” Bond muttered, taking out a cigarette of his own.

“I thought you quit?”

“If you go back to being Q instead of Sherrinford — no family, no zombies — I’ll quit again.”

Q smiled faintly and offered Bond the lighter. “It may be some time before that happens.” He trapped the cigarette between his lips and dug through his pocket for a money clip. He slid out the top bill and shoved it into the pocket of Bond’s trousers. “You might want to resupply. We both may need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> While this is the end of the adventures at Seaview Research Facility, this isn't the end of the series! Subscribe to the series to get notified with updates on Bond, Q, Sherlock, and John investigating the reasons behind Moran's assault on the facility.
> 
> I'll also be posting updates and additional info on my Tumblr at kryptaria.tumblr.com.


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